Tell All Your Friends
by RachelRiott
Summary: [MacFlack] It seemed as if each time they parted, they had to start all over again.
1. You Know How I Do

So sick, so sick of being tired.

And oh so tired of being sick.

We're both such magnificent liars.

So crush me baby, I'm all ears.

So obviously desperate, so desperately obvious.

I'll give in one more time and feed you stupid lines all about "its basic..."

_You Know How I Do, Taking Back Sunday_

It seemed as if each time they parted, they had to start all over again. The coyness, the exploratory touching, it was a deliciously vicious cycle. Don would stop by; they'd have a few drinks, watch a game that neither of them cared about. A hand, usually Mac's, would creep outside the predetermined boundaries of the seat cushions. Don never looked surprised, not even the first time; he just turned his hand over and folded it into Mac's. That would be followed by a good half an hour of them moving millimeters closer to each other until they had no choice but to lift their hands to allow space on the couch for their bodies.

All of this would have taken the better part of an hour, then someone, usually Don would lean in for a quick kiss. His eyes were always closed and it was always the briefest brush of their warm skin together. Don would pull back with his eyes still shut, bracing himself for the day when Mac realized that they were crossing way too many lines to not worry about their careers. But this was something they both needed, didn't know if they could do their jobs without it. Quite the catch twenty-two, Don provided him with enough sanity to correctly perform the tasks required of him but he also added enough chaos to keep him up on the nights that he fell asleep alone. Which was always.

After the kiss they'd sit in silence for a few minutes, giving each other the time they needed to gather their wits, consider bolting for the door. Don usually sat with his eyes shut, lashes resting against the skin Mac knew to be baby soft as opposed to the skin only a few inches lower that had the promise of a five o'clock shadow at eight o'clock in the morning. Even if his eyes were open they were never on Mac, he had always found this unsettling.

At first Mac had waited for Don to look at him, say something, but now Mac knew better. He'd lean in and kiss just below Don's earlobe, his chin brushing against the collar of his shirt, let Danny laugh but the patters and colors of Don's clothing only drew Mac in closer. Often times Mac's unoccupied hand would reach over their bodies and run down Don's tie. He wondered if Don thought he had a thing for the ties or if he knew how anxious he was to feel his body. He hoped it was the latter, although given time and trust, they could have some fun with the former.

Don's body would relax and he'd sink back into the armrest of the sofa, one arm sliding around Mac's waist, pulling him on top of his body, the other hand still folded in Mac's. Mac was content with lazy kisses, being older he knew that sometimes kisses could be even better than sex, he wondered if Don knew this too, of if he was just easing into the water. He wondered a lot about Don, about their "situation". Then he would start to wonder if _Don _wondered and that got his brain spinning in a direction he liked to safe exclusively for work.

But all of this wondering took place after Don had left, because when his hips were flush against Don, there wasn't much he _could _think about. Slowly Don's leg would wrap up around his body and Don would arch up against him, applying more pressure to their hips, but breaking the kiss. And this would be it. They'd rock against each other until their muffled moans became louder groans and their bodies began to shake, each time Mac felt like he was in junior high. The sickening feeling of coming in your clothes, knowing you'd have to walk home sticky, then do your own laundry in fear your mom would see what had happened. Come to think of it, it reminded him of being in the Marines a lot too. But that was something else he didn't want to think about, he put that thought on the shelf in the back of the closet along with his memories of Claire and everyone he had left back in Chicago. Some things were better left not thinking about, in the dark, in the closet.

After soiling yet another knock off suit Don would wait until they both caught their breath before he attempted to speak. He'd run his hands over his face, his watch sliding over his wrist in a way Mac found nothing less than erotic, and then say something about it getting late, big case, court, whatever it took to get him out of Mac's apartment. Mac hid his disappointment with a practiced ease, he hadn't been acknowledging his feelings for so long he wondered if he even knew what they were anymore. There went his brain again, stewing over things better left in the closet. But it was better to the alternative, which was watching Don walk out of his home. Every time Don got up Mac thought about grabbing his hand, or at least asking him to stay for a bit. But his mouth never seemed to work right so he'd just nod his head and pretend that the last two hours hadn't meant a thing.

The second time Don had shown up, Mac expected things to start off where they had left off. But they hadn't, they were back at square one. On the couch, a full cushion between them. He almost thought he had imagined the entire thing, maybe it had been nothing but a stress fueled delusion. Or maybe that was too sophisticated, maybe it was just a wet dream. Mac thought he was too old for those, but he was too old to be dry humping someone on his couch so he supposed anything was possible. All he knew for sure was that he was too old to be sleeping alone. And Don was too young not to be.


	2. Bike Scene

So honestly, how could you say those things  
when you know they don't mean anything  
And you know very well  
that I can't keep my hands to myself,  
hands to myself

I wanna hate you so bad  
But I can't stop this  
anymore than you can

_Bike Scene – Taking Back Sunday_

Don swallowed thickly as he raised his hand to Mac's door; he knew if he didn't knock soon the neighbor's would get suspicious. Hell, they probably were, he'd been out there fifteen minutes. Still, there was something in Mac's demeanor today, something that had made Don think twice about showing up. But in a city of mazes sometimes there was only one unobstructed path, and for him, that path led to the apartment where he habitually made poor decisions, maybe not poor, maybe just dangerous.

He thought of turning to leave when he heard the woman next door rummaging around for her keys, he could feel the glare she was giving him as she locked the dead bolt of her apartment, hugging her purse to her hip. She hadn't seen his badge and he hadn't wanted her too. Before she could change her mind and go inside to alert the cops to a suspicious person hanging out Detective Taylor's apartment he knocked on the door.

Wearing a t shirt from last summer's Jazz in the Park concert and a pair of sweats Mac was still a sight for sore eyes. He smiled a lot easier in the comforts of his own home and looked five years younger when not in the suit. Not that Don was complaining because the suits had the ability to make him go a little weak in the knees, or maybe it wasn't the suits at all. He was certain his face would split open if he smiled as wide as he would have liked, so he offered him a small smile and nodded towards the Corona in his hand, "Got one of those for me too?" He didn't bother with small talk, didn't pussyfoot around at the door wondering if Mac was going to let him in. Although he feared one day Mac would get fed up and just not answer the door. Don had walked past Mac, kicking off his shoes in the proper place and hanging his jacket before hearing Mac's response, "Actually, no."

Don froze, he didn't know if Mac meant he didn't have any beer, or he didn't have any beer for _him_. He silently cursed himself, maybe should have waited for Mac to invite him in, damn him for being so presumptuous. Before he could apologize for forcing himself into Mac's apartment he realized Mac was no longer in the room.

He was stunned; his biggest fear was that one day Mac would just grow tired of this. Don had figured if anyone would put up with his reservations, his fears, his complete and total terror of accepting who and what he was, that it would be Mac. He was still standing in the same spot when Mac returned to the room, he couldn't figure out why he didn't have his coat on, why he wasn't out the door. He blinked, his mouth falling open to utter some stupid excuse as to why he was still invading Mac's space when a Guinness was thrust into his hand. "You always make fun of my beer so I bought you your own, so don't think about touching my Coronas." He nodded towards the television and walked towards the couch, "The Knicks are half way through the first half, c'mon." Don quickly closed his mouth and nodded dumbly.

The game had ended without a word between them and even less space; their hands were resting on Mac's thigh. Within ten minutes Don was leaning back against the arm rest, Mac's tongue in this mouth, the Corona on his tongue mixing with the Guinness on his own was an exotic taste which he was quite certain he'd never forget. Don's leg was wrapping around Mac's body, his head falling backwards, eyes squeezing shut, the sensation of their hips together felt almost as good as Mac had tasted.

He was damn near seeing stars when he felt Mac's mouth on his throat as his hips had slowed, prolonging the moment of ejaculation. His breath was warm on Don's ear, his tongue flicking against the lobe, which was a new feeling and one that he definitely wanted to see more of. That is until he heard Mac speak, just whispers in his ear, "Look at me, Don."

All of a sudden his hips stopped moving, his leg loosed around Mac's body, his eyes squeezed together even tighter as his head swung from side to side. After a few seconds of nothing but an analog clock ticking, counting off the moments in an accusatory tone, Don found his voice, "Jus' keep movin', Mac." His head still rested against the couch making absolutely no attempt to open his eyes.

Mac hesitated before sliding his hand down Don's chest, along the silk tie, stopping at his belt. He bit the inside of his check, weighting the possible outcomes of the situation scientifically, after all it was just chemistry, biology and a little bit of anatomy. He started to ease his hand under Don's belt and, although it wasn't the desired result, it got Don's eyes open. Unfortunately they weren't in Mac's direction, they were staring at the clock and he eased himself away slowly, "Gotta go Mac, court in the mornin', thanks for the beer…" He looked away, his face burning red, "…and stuff."

He shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his jacket, not bothering to slip it on. He kept thinking that maybe the neighbor was right; maybe she should have called the police. His actions were nothing less than suspicious; he knew this was going to happen sooner or later. In fact he was shocked it hadn't happened yet. They weren't teenagers anymore and they weren't messing around in the back of his dad's Chevrolet.

Stumbling into the night air he waited until he was around the block before pressing into back into a wall, rubbing his face to keep his emotions in check. It wasn't that he didn't allow himself to get emotional; he just wasn't sure what emotion he should be feeling.

He wasn't sad, wasn't angry, wasn't hurt, defensive or disgusted.

He was scared.

And somehow, that was much worse.


	3. Cute Without the E

Hoping for the best just hoping nothing happens

A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins

I will never ask if you don't ever tell me

I know you well enough to know you'll never love me

Why can't I feel anything for anyone other than you?

_Cute Without the 'E' (Cut From the Team), Taking Back Sunday_

The deliciously vicious cycle had long ago ceased to be delicious and proved only to be vicious. He realized that the only thing worse than Don leaving when they finished was Don not coming over at all. Mac was left pacing his apartment wondering where Don was, who he was with, if he had messed up the fragile something they had been building. He didn't understand why Don had freaked out, a week had passed and they barely spoke at work and Don _definitely _did not stop by anymore. He couldn't comprehend why it was that Don had acted the way he did, why he wouldn't let himself be touched. Maybe Don was worried that skin on skin contact would mean there was something more going on than just friction. But then Mac would start to wonder if Don actually made conscience decisions like that, or if he just didn't want Mac to touch him because he was getting everything he wanted from their couch sessions. Maybe all he had wanted was someone to get him off; maybe Mac really was just a means to an end. That stung deeper than Mac had intended to let it.

He knew that he was going to have to put his feelings for Don up on that proverbial shelf in his closet. He had hoped that Don would be the one person he could unpack that shelf for. That he could tell Don about Corporal Stan Whitney, about what it's like to have the one person you loved more than yourself die in your arms. About drinking yourself into a stupor every night because you couldn't get the mental image of your dying lover out of your head. He remembered their nights together vividly, it had started when they manned the same post during the graveyard shift. It had started out innocently enough, simple touches lasting a little longer than they should have. But he was young and in a foreign country and he craved human contact. The way Stan had touched him reminded him of home, their passion reminded him of what he was fighting for. They didn't have time to experience anything slow and sensually, it was quick, awkward, silent; he knew if the platoon found out, they wouldn't have to worry about the Lebanese. If Mac concentrated hard enough he could still taste the sweat and cigarettes, he could still feel Stan's stubble against his face. The day he died Mac thought of deserting, thought of walking away from everything he had held so sacred. But then he remembered he was in a strange country, the only tie to home was lying in a body bag. When Stan had died Mac had left one of the dog tags on his body for identification, but the secondary tag he slipped into his pocket. On nights when he couldn't sleep, which was often, he'd still pull it out of his bedside drawer and run his fingers over the letters. When he was exhausted and his brain had shut down from too much of everything, he'd imagine Stan in his bed; sometimes he talked to him softly about things he was missing. About things they could have experienced together. But then Claire had come along and he packed up all the memories of Stan, both physical and emotional and put them in their respective closets.

Claire had been a savior; she had seen him at his worst and loved him fiercely for it. She was compassionate but strong; she had no qualms about scolding him for drinking away days, chastising him for wasting a precious gift. "You're alive and they're not, you can sit here and mourn for them or you can get out and make something of your life. Don't let them die in vain Mac, they deserve better than that, better than _this_." She leaned in and kissed his cheek, she whispered softly against his skin, "Make 'em proud, Mac."

And so he had, he received an honorable discharge and signed up for the police academy. Make them proud he would. But not in Chicago. Not with the dark memories that haunted every street corner. Those memories he didn't even think about when he couldn't sleep, those were deep on the closet shelf. Waiting for someone to share them with, he was tired of guarding them himself.

So he and his new bride moved to New York City, away from the ghosts of his past and into a new beginning. Things were great, better than they had ever been, occasionally he still got the dog tag out, and still traced the letters, but mostly he was content. He moved up the ranks quickly, Claire got a good job in the towers; they wanted for nothing, had everything they needed within each other, within the confines of the city. The only thing he was lacking was someone to share his secrets with, it couldn't be Claire, he had to protect her from such things. Protect her from everything that could make her frown, he had promised her that on their wedding day.

He knew he'd remember that day until he met his own demise. For a split second he thought there was an eclipse, nothing else could block out the sun like that. Nothing but a low flying plane. He ran outside and watched as the second plane hit in slow motion, the sound of the glass shattering echoed in his head for days. He just stood in the street, ash falling into his face; he knew Claire would be okay, he knew because he still believed in God. God was good, God wouldn't take away someone else, God didn't give you more than you couldn't handle. But God had more faith in him than he had in himself. God thought he could make it through the death of another loved one.

So the day after her funeral he packed up everything that belonged to her and dropped it off at the Good Will, he couldn't believe that her life could fit into a few cardboard boxes. With Stan he had been able to say good bye, but with Claire he had nothing. A quick kiss as he ran out the door and a promise of dinner later in the week. Then she was gone.

But he couldn't dwell on it long because he had work to do, he knew there were others that didn't have the closure he had, so he went to work sorting out pieces of debris, anything he could do to help. He had been doing well, or well enough to be expected, until he reached up into the closet for Stan's dog tags and his fingertips brushed against a beach ball. He inspected it and remembered Claire blowing it up on the way to Coney Island. He couldn't believe that her breath was contained inside, even though she was gone, her air still remained. Now he had two ghosts following him, he was sandwiched in between two people that weren't even there. With the beach ball and the dog tag on his dresser he imagined Claire curled into his chest and Stan curled behind his back, arm draped over his ribs. He wondered how he could outlive everyone he had ever loved. A fear trembled through him that maybe he was jinxed, maybe he was the reason that people seemed to disappear.

The next morning he knew that he had to push pass the pain, he heard Claire's voice in his head, "Make 'em proud, Mac." He put the ball and the tags back in the closet, closed the door and never opened it again. If he had company their coats went in his bedroom, couldn't open the door, that was where the ghosts had resided.

It was weeks before he felt like himself again, he remembered looking up at a scene and his eyes stared right into Don's. A chill ran through his body, he gave Don a warm smile and returned to the sea of shell casings. That was the first night that he had been able to sleep without the nightmares, the first night he could sleep alone, without the ghosts.

It wouldn't be until years later that he would take a chance and invite Don into his home. He wanted to wait until the ghosts were silent, couldn't risk him hearing the rattling chains, didn't want to scare him away. He wanted to take things slow with Don, wanted him to know that this was more than physical contact, that he wanted to make Don part of his life. That he was ready to open the closet door and make the introductions. But all of that came crashing down around him with Don's hasty departure from his apartment. He hadn't meant to startle him; he just needed something more and not necessarily something physical but he'd take it if that was all Don could offer.

Mac wanted nothing more to call him, to explain to him that he wasn't trying to push him into something that he wasn't ready for. That he just wanted to see his eyes again. But he didn't think Don would understand, that he'd be able to comprehend the way those eyes made him feel. But he knew Don was better off.

Now each time he caught Don's eyes at a scene he was reminded of the times when he _couldn't _catch them. It cut him to the core that he'd never be able to get what he wanted from Don, he was sure that if anyone could sleep in an apartment inhabiting the dead, it'd be Don. That he would be strong enough to face the spirits with Mac. But he knew better, or at least he was learning.

So he packed up his memories of Don and slid them into a folder, filing them behind Stan, behind Claire, behind Chicago. He took a deep breath before opening the closet door, putting five remaining glass bottles of Guinness on the shelf with the beach ball and the dog tags. Part of him was glad that things between them had ended before anything had actually started because it quelled his fears. He couldn't risk Don condemning himself to that fate, to him becoming another ghost in his closet. Before he shut the closet door Claire and Stan looked at him with tragic eyes and Mac shook his head, no one else would be joining them, not tonight anyway.

He wondered if it was selfish of himself to keep trying, maybe things were supposed to end up this way. Just him and the memories of things he once had, things that had slipped away. He was surprised how much easier it had been with Stan and Claire, he had no choice but to forget them, they were gone forever save for the few times Mac could conjure them up, when he was brave enough to open that door. But with Don, he caught those eyes on a daily basis. And that was worse then the rattles in his closet and all the ghosts in the Windy City.


End file.
